Here in the Dark Side of Me
by Vita Fidens
Summary: Sequel to "This Cold Reality I've Made." The life of Molly Parker was quiet and calm for several weeks, until a single idea sparks a chain of events that will change her life forever. What secrets does Dean Ambrose hide? Will Wade Barrett really let her go that easily? Rated M: Language, sex
1. Chapter 1

Dean Ambrose reflected on the last several weeks with a quiet sort of satisfaction.

Glancing down at the woman sleeping beside him, he could barely contain a smile. She had truly taken his suggestions – don't fear him, don't doubt him, respect and obey him – and put them into practice. He thought both of their lives were better for it.

There had been moments, of course, where he'd had to remind her of how to behave. Just a few days ago she'd spent the entire time the sun was up sulking around the house like a kicked dog. He'd had enough by the time twilight rolled around and cornered her in the kitchen, grabbing her by the hair and reminding her in a low, calm voice of the appropriate way to behave.

She'd straightened up immediately. She had even apologized, after a fashion. He accepted it gratefully before taking her up to bed and showing her multiple times that he refused to hold a grudge for such a minor offense.

He really was becoming a better man, he was astounded to find. Not even Wade Barrett's token attempts at raising his ire were bothering him.

It certainly helped that he'd taken a step back from everything except fighting. That was the only time he would see Barrett. Molly could patch him up at home, and often did quite well with it. He saw no reason to hang around the rest of them. He showed up, fought, took his money, and came home. It was working rather well.

Barrett had all but dropped his style of fighting from the card. He found that he didn't care. The less he had to work with the man, the better.

He thought it wouldn't be much longer that he was forced to do so. Every time he laid eyes on him, he looked increasingly worn. He'd also taken to drinking quite heavily and obviously, taking no pains to hide his inebriation. Most of the day-to-day business was currently being handled by Sheamus, who viewed Ambrose with obvious distrust but at least tended to give him a fair shake.

It was all probably for the best.

Sliding back down in the bed, he turned on his side to study Molly for a few moments. He still found it difficult to believe that she was here, in his bed, and that she was actually here entirely by choice. Yes, he may have pushed her towards the appropriate decision, but in the end she had made the leap on her own.

He reached out cautiously and lightly pushed her hair out of her face. Anyone who knew him would have been shocked to see the tenderness that fell over his expression. It didn't last terribly long, as he trailed his fingers down over her shoulders and continued on to her breast, but for a moment it had been written on his face – he cared deeply for this woman.

Pausing briefly, before he was too carried away, he turned away and struck a match to light the single candle beside the bed. It had been their compromise to needing the light on at night in order for Molly to not be afraid with him. He grinned when he saw that it was nearly entirely burned down after the last few weeks.

He'd been intimate with her in various ways nearly every night since the first, but he hadn't been inside of her again. He wanted to be, quite desperately at times, but he held back and would continue doing so until they were actually married.

She had surprised him by her immediate and unwavering respect for him, and so he elected to return the same in this regard.

Still, it didn't mean that he wouldn't take his enjoyment out of her in other ways.

As Dean moved to nuzzle his face between Molly's bare breasts, losing himself in her as had become his habit, Wade Barrett watched the flickering light in their bedroom from outside their gate.


	2. Chapter 2

He knew that it was neither healthy nor proper for him to intrude in their lives the way he had been over the last several weeks. But he found his feet wandering, almost of their own accord, to this place over and over again merely to stand outside and wait to see some sign of Molly.

He'd finally tried to reach out to her a few days ago, waiting until Ambrose left on some errand before knocking. She'd taken one look at him, taking in a sight that he knew was pitiful, and had quietly closed the door.

Returning later that night, he saw her through the kitchen window. She looked upset, or maybe that was a hopeful delusion he had. He'd watched as Ambrose had grabbed her tightly by the hair, craning her neck sharply to the side to speak into her ear. His own fists balled up angrily and he nearly jumped the gate until he saw Molly turn and kiss him.

Ambrose suddenly couldn't keep his hands off of her, and after being frozen for several minutes his rage simply turned into a more familiar despair. He trudged back home without waiting to see him sweep her upstairs.

Now he watched the flickering light from a single candle, lit suddenly in the middle of the night, and tried desperately to hold himself back from rushing into the house and stopping this madness.

He realized suddenly that he was a drunken idiot.

"Christ," he muttered, disgusted with himself and how far he'd let himself be carried away.

In that precise moment, the rage in him simply winked out. He had no one to blame for this situation except himself, and being angry obviously hadn't done him a damn bit of good thus far. It was time for a new strategy – the first part of which involved sobering up and a shower.

Stumbling home, he put himself in a cold shower immediately. Once the alcohol-induced fog began to lift, he changed the temperature to something manageable and washed away at least a week's worth of grime.

He collapsed into the pile of blankets that comprised his makeshift bed on the sofa and slept through the entirety of the next day, waking with a mouth that felt like it was stuffed with cotton and legs screaming in agony from the muscle cramps that accompanied his severe dehydration.

Lurching painfully towards the kitchen, he drank directly from the faucet for several minutes before he was sated. Once he was able to stand upright again, he began taking stock.

Physically, he still felt awful. His head was pounding and his muscles ached from both the flood of alcohol and the general inactivity of the last few weeks. He had gone on a three-week-long bender; it was no surprise that he felt terrible.

Emotionally, he was a wreck. He felt as if there was a pit in his chest, a monstrous void that consumed everything he was – heart, soul, mind. He closed his eyes and suddenly remembered why he'd gone on that bender in the first place. It was much easier to be drunk than deal with this agony.

"Stop it, for Christ's sake," he told himself sternly. He needed to feel this pain so that he could flush it out. He couldn't continue living the half-life he had been, and drinking constantly had done him no favors.

It was time for him to grow up, accept responsibility for what had happened, and work on making things with Molly and things in the rest of his life right. He couldn't do that while he was intoxicated – at least not terribly effectively.

The first thing he needed to do was regain control of what was happening around him. He'd been out of touch with what was going on for several weeks, and he elected to change his serious lack of information immediately. He read through several papers that Sheamus had dropped on his desk, grateful that someone reliable had elected to take charge.

One paper stopped him short. It was a scribbled, scrawling mess, but it caught his attention all the same.

"International invitational," he read under his breath before diving into the proposed details. Upon finishing, he stood immediately and made his way out into the night.

Sheamus was worried when Wade showed up at his door unexpectedly, clutching a piece of paper with wide eyes.

As he moved aside to let him in, he was relieved to note that he didn't reek of booze tonight. That elevated his hope for a return to normalcy slightly.

They settled in at his kitchen table, and Wade pushed the paper across to him. He was relieved – and a bit embarrassed – to see that it was an idea he'd had weeks ago. He truly wasn't even sure why he'd written it and tossed it onto Wade's desk. Perhaps to see if he was really paying attention?

"Tell me about this."

Sheamus shrugged, his face growing hot. "It's a silly idea I had."

"I don't think it's silly at all. I think it's bloody brilliant." He paused. "Have you worked out any of the logistics?"

"Well…no," he replied, stammering a bit.

"Then let's get started."

Wade felt a strong sense of relief as he left. It felt good to be doing something productive, to be working towards a goal of some kind. They had set tentative dates and had compiled a list of some well-known names – men from as close as Ireland, and as far as Mexico. Wade had been sure to include Mr. del Rio on the list, knowing that he would likely want a return match with Dean Ambrose.

It would be several weeks before they heard back, and a few weeks after that before the men came piling in to the country.

For the first time in a long time, he allowed his feet to take him directly home instead of past the Ambrose house.


	3. Chapter 3

Slowly, the tournament began to come together.

Wade spent many hours planning with Sheamus, as well as many hours with the sparring dummy in his basement. He didn't intend to sit this tournament out. Sheamus had graciously agreed to take a break from the fight and handle the ceremonies.

They had worked out many of the trickier logistics related to format and pay scale, and were now working on the more mundane aspects – setting first-round matches and advertising, mostly. It was one nitpicky little detail that sent Wade down for another round of sparring on this fine day, attempting to both avoid the truth and delay the inevitable.

They had discussed their plans with Doc Callahan, and he had stalwartly refused to handle the massive influx on his own. He needed assistance if he was going to work for them at all. He needed Molly.

It was an uncomfortable situation to be in. They had no time to train a replacement, and with a tournament of this size they needed someone who already had significant experience.

Molly was the right choice. It certainly didn't mean that it was an easy one.

Sheamus offered to go alone to ask if she would be interested in helping them out, but Wade elected to join him. He needed to confront his demons, and he needed to show her that he was no longer floundering. He also simply needed to see her, desperately, after two months of not so much as a glimpse of her but tried to avoid thinking about that as a determining factor in his visit.

He landed a few more particularly vicious punches before patting the dummy on the head affectionately. It was his only friend lately. Wiping his face and chest with a towel, he realized he'd delayed long enough and pulled his shirt back on.

No time like the present.

Sheamus kept stealing glances over at him as they made their way to the house to make sure that he was steady. He noticed, but refused to acknowledge it. The less the obvious discomfort of the situation was recognized, the sooner it would return to a relatively normal state of affairs.

As they climbed the steps, however, he felt his heart leap into his throat. He wasn't sure he was truly ready for this. Not yet. But it was too late to back out now.

Molly answered the door, and he was just barely able to hold back from rushing towards her. He clenched his fists by his sides and, when she had turned away, punched himself hard in the thigh. He needed to hold it together.

She ushered them in, taking no pains to hide her discomfort and curiosity, but taking great pains to hide the fear she felt when Dean saw their guests.

Her fear wasn't entirely unfounded, as she watched his body tense and prepare to spring into action – but he merely stood and shook hands with Sheamus before offering his hand to Barrett, who hesitated a moment before taking it and shaking wordlessly.

"What can we do for you gentlemen?" She asked as they settled into the living room.

Both men were momentarily silent, Wade looking edgy and pale, before Sheamus took the reins and spoke. "We've set up a bit of a tournament; men from all over the world will be coming into town and participating. Doc can't handle what's bound to be chaos on his own. We need someone who's got experience and a strong stomach. We need you."

"International tournament?" Dean broke in, his stomach suddenly feeling sour. "Have you had a good response?"

"An excellent one, actually," Wade said slowly. "We have men from Ireland, Germany, Switzerland, Spain, Canada…even Mr. del Rio has agreed to return from Mexico. It will be a spectacular event."

Ambrose looked obviously uncomfortable. "Anyone from the States?"

Wade glanced at Sheamus, unable to remember. "No," he finally said. "I don't believe so. Not yet." Sheamus confirmed that, and both men shared a look when Ambrose visibly relaxed.

Wade had never thought to ask Mr. Ambrose about the reasons he'd fled to England. He suddenly wished he'd done so before relations between them had soured so completely. It might have made for a very different outcome.

Molly glanced over at Dean. "What do you think?" She asked in a low voice. He finally turned to study her, shaking away the cold chill of fear that had shot down his spine, and considered it for several moments.

"What would you like to do?"

Molly froze. She hadn't expected that he'd take her input into consideration. "I'd like to help," she admitted.

He smiled. "Then so be it."


	4. Chapter 4

Molly began to slowly return to tending to the men after their fights over the next several weeks. Part of it was about requiring practice with her skills – patching up Dean had become easy, but he was one man and was usually relatively patient with her. The other part of it….

Doc was happy to see her. Sheamus and Drew made her laugh. She had missed that social interaction; she had missed feeling useful. It was something she would never admit to Dean. She was smart enough to know that his good humor would only go so far before he snapped.

That was her life now. Constantly walking gingerly, afraid that her next move would cause him to break out of this genial façade. She refused, however, to feel pity for herself. She'd chosen this, knowing what kind of life it would be. She'd chosen this over a man who was kind and gentle towards her, a man who still looked at her with admiration.

Sheamus didn't deserve someone as broken as her, someone as emotionally unavailable as she was. He deserved a woman who would love him equally as fiercely as the love he would give to her. She wouldn't have been able to do that for him.

She glanced in the corner of the room, where Doc was working on Mr. Barrett. All this time had passed, and her heart still leapt into her throat whenever she saw him. She wondered if that feeling would ever go away, hoping that it did just as fervently as she hoped that it didn't.

He didn't seem to even notice that she was in the same room. He kept his eyes resolutely forward, not sparing even a passing flick of his eyes in her direction. It was disheartening. Not that she truly would have been able to act on any emotion still left between them, but it was hurtful to think that after all that had passed he felt nothing.

She returned to tending the back of Drew's head and noticed Dean watching her from the other corner of the room. He did not look amused.

She tried, and failed, to keep herself from being afraid. In truth, he hadn't harmed her nearly as severely or as often since she had come to live with him. But she had also been mostly confined to the house and had few interactions with other men in general, Mr. Barrett in particular. She could feel a shift in his mood over the last few weeks as she spent less time in the house, and she was terrified of a return to his previous behavior.

Attempting to appease him, she kept her eyes focused directly on whatever task she was performing the rest of the night.

The first inkling she had that this plan didn't work was when they returned home. He'd been relatively subdued walking back, keeping her close to him but not gripping her harshly or with anger. She thought that she would escape from her minor indiscretion unscathed.

The moment the door shut behind them the smile dropped off of his face and he drove her into the wall, slamming the back of her head into the base of the mounted lamp.

"What," he said slowly, "didn't you do tonight?"

She stared at him numbly, not entirely comprehending. He took the heel of his hand and smashed it into her nose, a nauseating crunching noise following his blow.

"Doubt," he snapped, holding up one finger. "Fear. Respect. Obey." He ticked the rest off on his fingers in similar fashion. "Which?" He asked, wiggling them in her face.

She certainly feared him now, but she gathered that was his intention. She didn't doubt his ability to harm her. And he'd never given her a precise order to obey. That left one possibility.

"Respect," she whispered.

"Speak up."

She paused a moment before clearing her throat. "Respect," she repeated.

He nodded slowly. "You're not stupid, Molly. So why are you acting like it?"

She was afraid that he'd demand an answer that she didn't have, but he instead dropped the collar he'd been clutching tightly and stepped back from her. After he simply stared at her for several moments, he turned and walked upstairs.

Shaking, she brought her hand up to see if she was bleeding and found that she was. She'd never set her own broken nose before, but tonight was as good a night as any to practice.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean had known that Molly returning to work with the men had been a mistake. That might have been the most frustrating part for him – he had known in his heart that it was a terrible idea, but he'd allowed himself to be wrapped in a false sense of security. She had done so well since her arrival, and he thought that she understood her position.

It would appear he was mistaken.

Shaking his head, he attempted to calm himself. It had been one moment, one glance, and she had changed her behavior immediately. It was the first time she had been around Barrett since she'd rejected him, and he could understand her curiosity. He could understand it, but it didn't mean that he liked or condoned it.

He closed his eyes and lightly massaged his temples. The idea of this ridiculous tournament – what were they calling it, the international invitational? – had him more on-edge than he cared to admit aloud. He didn't dare ask again if anyone from the States had responded, although he wanted to know quite desperately.

He forced a wry smile onto his face. An undefeated international champion wouldn't turn an opportunity such as this down. His past was catching up to him with great rapidity, and he needed to address that particular issue before he snapped.

It had been such a long time ago. Well, perhaps not – truthfully, only two years had passed – but it felt as if it was in a different life; it felt like a scene out of a book. Something that had happened once, to someone, somewhere…but had never happened to him.

He hung his head in his hands. There were things that he didn't regret, and several that he did. Stealing the money wasn't a problem. He had worked hard and he'd needed it to make it to England. He didn't regret that Clara had killed herself after he'd left her – he'd warned her of what he was; it was her decision not to take him at his word. He regretted that he'd made the stupid decision to become intimate with the sister of a man he couldn't beat, and further regretted that he'd been drunk enough to not pull out when the time came.

"The fine messes we get ourselves into," he muttered, rubbing his hand over his weary eyes.

It all would have been all right if the dumb bitch hadn't offed herself, he thought bitterly. He wouldn't have been happy about it, but he would have paid her to take care of…it. He thought that had been generous; he never would have considered it if it weren't for the identity of her brother.

But that offer hadn't been good enough, she had whined and mewled. She wanted him as well, and when he refused with a hearty laugh she checked out of life like a coward.

He had been waiting for years for this to catch up with him. Finally, when he had settled – when his life had settled – and it could all be taken away from him in a matter of weeks. Molly could be taken away from him in a matter of weeks. The only woman that he'd given a damn about in his miserable life.

Part of him knew that this was karma, to punish him when he was at his best approximation of content with his life. But the other part of him raged against this notion and continued with the false delusion that he had done what he could, and the result was not his fault.

He shook his head. It didn't matter how he saw it – it mattered how Phil Brooks saw the situation. And Dean could guess that he had a very different view of things.


	6. Chapter 6

The only unfortunate thing about working again regularly was that Molly now needed to come up with a reason her face was bruised and swollen. She tried a few different thoughts as she listlessly made her way down to the vacant office they had appropriated as a make-shift clinic, but none of them seemed to fit right.

To her great relief, she required none of the feeble excuses she'd managed to cultivate. The office was empty this morning, and if she was quick about her work she could avoid seeing anyone until later in the week, after her face had returned to its normal proportions.

She quickly began to restock the supplies they'd used last night, hoping that her luck would continue to hold. She was actually nearly done when it gave out, a loud banging noise informing her that the door had just slammed shut.

Briefly, she had the terrifying thought that Dean had come looking for her, but turning around she saw that it was much worse – Mr. Barrett had.

He couldn't quite pull back the shock and rage on his face, but he didn't start yelling as she'd expected him to do.

"Are you all right?" He asked instead.

Not trusting her voice, she nodded and turned back towards what she had been doing, ignoring the stinging tears in her eyes. She felt a deep sense of shame at being seen like this, at having him know that things weren't quite perfect in the Ambrose household.

He was so quiet that she thought he might have gone to some other part of the building and left her to her own devices, but after several minutes she felt his hands fall gently on her shoulders.

Her first instinct was to simply relax beneath his touch, so different from that of the man she now spent her days with – she could feel the affection in his hands, the warmth that radiated through her and made her aware of how loved she was.

"Do you remember," he began carefully, keeping his voice low, "how we used to speak for hours at a time? Just the two of us, on that pitiful sofa, battling against sleep so that we didn't lose a single moment together."

She swallowed hard. "Of course I do."

His hands slid from her shoulders and wrapped around her waist, pulling her back into his body. "Talk to me, Molly," he said gently. "I'm still the same person."

Her heart wrenched at those words, and she felt tears that had merely been imminent moments ago begin to slide down her cheeks. "No," she replied sadly, "you're not. Not to me." Lightly, she patted his hands with hers. "Let me get back to work, now."

"No," he said simply.

She slowly turned to face him. "What -?" but before she could continue her question he bent and kissed her fiercely, taking great care to avoid her broken nose.

She pushed her hands against his chest for several seconds before giving in and returning his kiss, unsurprised to feel tears rolling down her cheeks with greater intensity. Her heart ached and soared all at once, desperate to leave and increasingly desperate to stay.

"I'm sorry," he said as he finally pulled away. "I'm sorry for everything I managed to put you through. Please, please forgive me for being an utter idiot. My life isn't the same without you."

Her face suddenly went white, her gaze focused behind his shoulder.

"I guess," a familiar voice said behind him, "you should have thought of that before you tossed her out like yesterday's newspaper."

Slowly, he stepped back. He didn't believe he'd ever seen Mr. Ambrose looking so livid, his fists curled tightly by his sides and a discarded bouquet of flowers crushed on the floor.

Ambrose turned his attention to Molly. "Go home," he snarled. "You wait for me there. You and I apparently need to discuss a few things, much like we did last night."

Wade put his hand out to stop her from leaving. "No," he said, shaking his head. "This madness has gone on long enough. Molly's coming home with me."

"The hell she is," he hissed. "All of our choices were made. The matter was settled. It's going to stay that way." He took a step forward. "Go home _now_," he growled, "or I'll make last night look like a pleasant evening, I swear it to Christ."

Desperately torn, Molly's sense of self-preservation ultimately won out and she slowly made her way towards the door. She wanted to look back, to have some idea of what was going to happen now, but thought better of it and simply left.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean knew that he was beyond the point of reasonable intoxication and that it was likely time to go home, but he couldn't bring himself to call his tab and follow-through with that notion.

Instead, he gestured for another drink, wincing painfully as his fingers opened and closed.

It seemed that every possible part of him hurt to the point that not even alcohol could numb it entirely.

Their fight had been, if at all possible, even more vicious than the last. He'd left Barrett in a pool of blood, breathing shallowly – but he'd left him breathing, a mistake he was already beginning to bitterly regret.

His mind swirled unhappily around what was going to happen with little Miss Molly. He had half-expected her to stay in that filthy room, and he was sure that he would have killed both of them had that been the case. Instead, she had again chosen him.

She had chosen him after having her mouth and hands all over Barrett, however, so he wasn't totally sure if he could consider it a solid mark in the victory column.

"You look troubled," a voice broke into his thoughts. He turned to see a bald, muscular man suddenly sitting beside him.

"Fuck off," he growled, taking another drink.

The man laughed. "I would, but see Mr. Ambrose, I am in need of assistance of the kind that I hear only you can provide."

He finally caught wind of the man's accent, and it made him pause. "Who are you?" He asked, meeting the man's eyes. "And what the fuck do you want?"

"Antonio Cesaro," he replied. "I am in town for the invitational. Normally I wouldn't bother you, but it's been a long journey and I hear you can help me."

"Spit it the fuck out."

Cesaro leaned closer to him and lowered his voice. "I understand that you and I have some of the same…proclivities…as it pertains to ladies. I was hoping you could point me in an appropriate direction."

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. What a fucking weird conversation. "Two blocks north. House with the green door on the northernmost corner. Ask for Maude. Throw a few extra pounds her way; she'll take care of you."

He went to turn back towards the bar, but the man stopped him with a hand on the arm and the approximation of an apologetic smile. "Very kind of you, but I would prefer to avoid the whorehouse. It's not that I mind paying; it's simply that the ladies there won't take kindly to me, I'm afraid. I was hoping you knew of someone local, someone not surrounded by a pack of people who would…interfere in my business."

It took a minute for Ambrose to register what he was saying. The guy was saying he was too violent for a whorehouse. His brain started to whirr, running through several possibilities.

He could tell the guy to fuck off. He could tell him that he didn't know of anyone who fit that particular bill. Or…or….

He finished his beer in one quick swallow. "Come with me," he said. "I think I know what you're after."


	8. Chapter 8

Molly was doing her absolute best to keep from crying, but things had been a jumbled mess since Dean and this other man had come through her door.

Without a word to her, Dean had picked her up around the waist and carried her upstairs, throwing her onto the bed. The candle had already been lit, but she found herself almost wishing that it hadn't been. His face was pure, unbridled anger, and the smirk on the face of the other man made her aware that something terrible was going to happen to her tonight.

Dean impatiently ripped at her dress, pulling scraps of fabric away rather than simply undressing her.

He hadn't said a word. That might have been the most terrifying part. He wasn't telling her that she was wrong, that she had made a mess of things – he wasn't telling her how angry he was. Instead, he came at her in stony silence with a mask of fury covering his face.

She wanted to open her mouth and apologize, beg for forgiveness, beg him to simply talk to her. But the dead expression in his eyes caused her to think better of it and she snapped her mouth shut, swallowing down the pain and the fear, and let him go about his business.

The other man settled into a chair beside their bed, folding one long leg over the other and tenting his fingers. That was all she could see of him before Dean hit her with a closed fist on the side of her head.

"Me," he snapped. "Focus on _me_."

She nodded briefly, trying desperately to keep the fear in her chest from bursting through. She thought if it did she might run from the room – or at least attempt to do so – and then the real trouble would start.

He bent and kissed her, biting her lip roughly as he ripped her panties away from her. She felt him pressing against her, and she had expected this but the idea of being intimate with him while another man watched drove her to behave in ways she knew she shouldn't.

"Dean," she said, horrified. "No."

His nostrils flared as he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to a sitting position, their noses mere inches from one another.

"What the _fuck_ did you just say to me?"

It was a dangerous question with no right answer.

"Please," she said simply, trying to salvage some sort of safe haven. "I'm not ready yet."

The room was silent and tense for several moments before he eased her down onto her back, deceptively gentle. He grabbed her legs and pushed them up, bending her in half. She watched, horrified, as he spat repeatedly on her intimate place.

He glanced up to see her horror and smiled. "You asked so nicely," he said snidely. "Interrupt me again, speak up again, tell me _no_ one more fucking time, and I'll fuck you up the ass like I did the first time...only dry."

Fighting back waves of nausea and fear, she closed her eyes while he pushed inside of her. He didn't appreciate that, it would seem, as he picked her head up and slammed it into the headboard. "Eyes on me, Molly. For fuck's sake, woman."

She saw two of him through her blurred vision at first, but soon the picture aligned correctly into one smug, angry man who moved as violently as possible in order to hurt her. It would have been uncomfortable regardless, as it had been some time since her first – but the friction and the way he pushed all of the way inside of her to hit the end of her painfully made it unbearable.

"Are you crying, sweetheart?" He asked with mock sympathy. "Good."

She bit her lip and refused to speak, knowing that it would end badly if she were to open her mouth. He misinterpreted this motion.

"You look like you want to hit me. Do you want to hit me, Molly?" He asked, thrusting roughly into her. "I'll give you one. But then I get a turn."

She shook her head, and he slapped her anyway. "Come on," he growled. "Hit me, you fucking bitch."

When she didn't comply this time, he wrapped a hand around her throat and used his other hand to slap her again. "I'm telling you to do something, you numb cunt," he snarled. "Fucking hit me."

Eyes full of hatred, she hauled off and slapped him as hard as she could from her position on the bed. His cheek began turning red immediately, and when he turned back to her his eyes were on fire.

He punched her hard in the jaw, and abandoning all pretense she began to hit him as hard as she was able and attempt to get away from him.

"Hold her," she heard Dean say, and moments later her arms were pinned above her head by the other man.

Something in the way she fought him coupled with knowing he had an audience who enjoyed this almost as much as he did made him feel exhilarated. He had briefly thought that satisfaction could be derived from being sweet, from loving someone. He realized then how wrong he was.

This, he thought, was what life was about. This was all that women were good for. He slammed into her brutally, smiling at the tears that ran down her face. Smiling at the way her hands struggled feebly against the tight grip Cesaro had her in. Drinking in the admiration in the other man's eyes just as much as he drank in the pain in hers.

He came abruptly, his mind a haze of pride and anger and lust.

After he was done, he climbed off the bed and grabbed his pants. "She's all yours," he said to Cesaro. "Just leave the money on the dresser when you're done."

Making sure to maintain eye contact with little Miss Molly, he went to the bedside table and blew out the candle, leaving them in total darkness.


	9. Sequel

Hello all! Thanks, once again, for reading, reviewing, favoriting, tweeting, and now - Tumblring (is that a word?!) along with me (check my author profile if you want the info on how to find me on either Twitter or Tumblr). I'm having a ton of fun getting to know you guys, so if I haven't made your acquaintance yet - don't be shy! I'm not _that_ terrible.

This next story is a bit of departure for me - in that I'm posting it as it's in progress. It can be found under the title "Goddamn This Cursed Iron Fist." It's likely that I'll simply keep adding to that story from here on out to make it a bit easier to keep track of what I'm doing (yeah, it only took me 47 separate stories over 2.5 series to figure that one out). Thank you so much for your patience and continued support! I hope you enjoy. :)


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